


The Party's Over

by cuddyclothes



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Gen, Grieving House, Post-Death Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-20 22:47:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6028332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuddyclothes/pseuds/cuddyclothes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happened after Wilson died.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Party's Over

House got compassionate leave from prison to attend Wilson’s funeral. Two armed escorts stayed at a respectful, if vigilant, distance. It was a gray, overcast morning. Wilson would have liked that. A gray day for a gray mood and everyone dressed in black. He had requested cremation. It horrified his relatives but greatly amused House. One last “fuck you” to the family who had never been there in the first place.

Danny wasn’t allowed to attend. In fact, they hadn’t told him yet that his brother was dead. The meds weren’t working and the poor bastard didn’t know where he was half the time. House didn’t visit him. What was the point? Staring at a guy who looked like a bloated, twisted version of his brother? Who didn’t know who this limping stranger was?

  
It had been tough to find a rabbi willing to do a service over a cremated body—“cremains” was the fancy new term. As he continued the sonorous bleating of a man who had never actually met Wilson (“the man touched many lives”) House turned to the nearest escort. “We can go now.”

  
As previously arranged, they drove to Wilson’s apartment so House could pick up a few tokens. There was no back door, the windows were far too high for an escape. One of the armed escorts opened the door and it swung open. To emptiness.  
Most of Wilson’s furniture was gone. But the wine glasses and wine were still on the shelf. The organ Wilson gave him was under a sheet, as was an end table. Stickley.  It would probably be sold at auction with the rest of Wilson’s things. The man had high-end taste.

  
“In the bedroom,” House said to the larger escort, Jenkins, who nodded his head. He had a buzz-cut for maximum macho. House knew Jenkins from the cellblock, and they got along okay. Jenkins followed him along the hall. The bathroom door was open. Wilson had never taken down the grab-bar over the tub. House shivered, but refused to let tears come. If he did, he would be a weeping mess. That’s not what he wanted.

  
The bed was gone, replaced by a hospital bed that Wilson wasted away in. There was still blood stains on the carpet from where Wilson had hacked up blood for three days before dying. The prison had allowed House to be there at the end. House had called time of death: 4:47 AM.  The hospital bed was gone, but the dresser and end table were still in the bedroom. Presumably none of the family felt they could deal with this room.

  
“Give me a minute.”

  
House slid open the drawer on the right nightstand. Before Jenkins or the other escort could move, House suddenly put the gun under his chin and pulled the trigger.

  
In the nanosecond as it happened, House wondered if he’d see Wilson again.

  
If he did, he owed Wilson an apology.


End file.
